


The Magic If

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Crush, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Everyone Loves Rupert, Everyone Wants Rupert, Everyone Writes Fanfic, Humor, M/M, Rupert Graves is Dishy, Rupert Is Oblivious, Sexual Fantasy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-11
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A few scenes had to be deleted from "A Scandal in Belgravia." This was one of them.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magic If

**SHOOTING SCRIPT.**

**Scandal in Belgravia, Day 7**

**Scene 16 (to follow CIA agent's fall from Baker Street window)**

_(In front of New Scotland Yard. Late night. Mycroft and Lestrade. Reflection of Mycroft with umbrella visible in windshield of Mycroft’s waiting car. Lestrade comes down steps---distracted, grumpy. Holding a thin blue file folder full of papers. Sees Mycroft.)_

M: (motioning with his umbrella for Lestrade to approach, holding out his hand, into which Lestrade shoves the file): Greetings, Inspector Lestrade. I’m delighted you were able to part with this paperwork. Easier for everyone involved, I’d say. Our American friend is recovering nicely from his unfortunate accident. And you get high marks for your loyalty to my brother, as usual.

L: Unfortunate accident? Christ. The man had four broken ribs and a concussion. I can’t believe I haven’t been answering calls from the American embassy all night.

M: Technically, my American friend is in Nairobi, not London right now, so . . .

L: (shakes his head, grumbles) Yeah. Of course. So there can’t be an investigation, can there? Is me giving you the files really loyalty or just stupidity? Can’t tell the difference anymore.

M: My dear Inspector, no one except my brother would ever call you stupid. Loyalty is a valuable qua lity--extremely valuable to me, especially. (Mycroft stares at Lestrade.)

L: (Lestrade glances at Mycroft, then down at the pavement. He’s made it clear over the years he wants no money or favors for handling the Holmes brothers’ secrets. He doesn’t need to say it again. He’s distracted, thinking about his wife and their breakup.)

Okay. Whatever you say. But loyalty and stupidity sometimes go hand in hand, don’t they? A bloke has to be stupid to be loyal to someone who doesn’t give a damn--or makes a fool of him on a regular basis.

M: (Pauses. Looks away.) I see. And are we still discussing my brother or . . .

L: (Uncomfortable pause.) Yeah. No. Not exactly--although now that you mention it, my wife and Sherlock do have a few things in common.

M: (Looks curious.) Really? Mad genius, is she?

L: Nah. She looks good in tight trousers too.

M: (Surprised. Laughs. Then he and Lestrade laugh togethe r for a brief moment, echoing John and Sherlock’s scene at the Palace.) I’m sorry. I know divorce is no laughing matter.

L: (Relaxing. Leaning on Mycroft's car. Audience learns Lestrade sees Mycroft as a friend. Foreshadowing relationship in Series 3.) Well, the way we handled it was kind of a farce. I called her up a few days before Christmas to tell her I was pretty sure I’d be making DCI this year. More money. More regular schedule. Thought that’s what she wanted. Thought we could really get things sorted and she’d move back to our flat. She said that was great about the promotion, and she had some big news for me too--said she’d tell me at Christmas with her parents in Dorset.

M: (He knows what happened, but doesn’t say anything. Leans on his umbrella. Looks at the streetlamp, not Lestrade.)

L: So, yeah. Her news was she was moving in with a bloody P.E. teacher and taking the kids. I blame Richard fucking Branson.

M: (Confused.) I don’t . . . surely your wife isn't in a liaison with Branson?

L: (Smiles sadly.) No. She met her new boyfriend at one of those Virgin health clubs. Some bike yoga class. I ask you--how are you supposed to do yoga on a bike? She’s gone completely off her head.

M: (Pauses. Tries to decide whether to correct Lestrade's mistake. Finds it charming how slow to catch on Lestrade is sometimes.) I think—perhaps--she meant _bikram_ yoga, Greg. It’s often practiced in a very hot room. I’m told there’s a great deal of . . . well, sweating and such.

L: (Lifts his chin and gives Mycroft a skeptical look. Takes a minute to figure it out, like he does with Sherlock. Then realizes Mycroft's probably right.) Well bugger that. I didn’t stand a chance, did I? Not against a sweaty, flexible twenty-six-year-old. (Laughs--or tries to.) To hell with it. Come down the pub with me, Mycroft? I th ink I need a drink.

M: No . . . No thank you, Greg. I should be putting this file into the right hands now . . . I . . .

L: Oh, come on. I’m calling in one of the many favors you owe me. We don’t have to talk. Just get drunk--and then you give me a ride home in that posh car of yours.

(Mycroft’s phone rings. He steps away to answer it. Gives Lestrade a shrug of apology. His driver opens the car door and Mycroft waves goodbye. Lestrade shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away.)

**END SCENE**

The lights come up in the screening room. Paul McGuigan, Sue Vertue, and Mark Gatiss have just watched the day’s rushes. There’s an awkward silence as Sue and Paul look at each other and smile.

Mark rubs his forehead wearily. “Rupert hasn’t seen today’s scenes, has he?”

Sue answers, “No. Definitely not. He left early this afternoon to do some press for Garrow’s Law. Listen, Mark . . .”

Mark stops her with a wave that looks very much like a Mycroft gesture. “You don’t have to say it. I saw it too. I’d prefer if Steven didn’t see this either, but I know that’s impossible . . .”

Paul jumps in. “Look Mark, we’ve known we had to cut at least twelve or fifteen minutes from the script to get this down to 90 minutes, so . . . I don’t mind telling Steven this scene needs to go. It doesn’t push the plot forward; it was designed as a pause before the big action happens and to give Rupert a little more screen time. We can lose it--no problem.”

Sue smiles and pats Mark’s shoulder. “I agree. We’ll cut it out of the rushes Steven is looking at tonight—“I’ll tell him the lighting was crap.”

Mark glances at Sue gratefully. Paul’s mobile rings and he excuses himself to answer it.

Mark moves to sit closer to Sue and says in a low tone, so the three crew members outside the screening room can't hear, “I can’t believe how obvious I was. Do I always look like a schoolgirl with a crush when he’s around? How embarrassing.”

“No, darling. Usually there’s a crowd of people around and there’s a lot of work to be done, and . . . no. Trust me. It’s usually not obvious. I guess it’s just when you’re doing an intense scene, one-on-one . . . it’s easy to read all your emotions in those close-ups.” She pats his arm in sisterly sympathy.

“He’s really so dishy, isn’t he?” Mark smiles and then adds, “Don’t answer that. We shouldn’t discuss it. I could not be more happily married, you know.”

Sue laughs and nods. “Of course, I know that. Same goes for me. Happily married--despite being frequently pissed off at my husband lately. But happily married doesn’t mean _dead_ , Mark. You’re not the only one whose knees wobble a little standing at the lunch cart with Mr. Graves. And you know there’s all that fanfiction out there pairing Mycroft and Lestrade. Those fans must see some chemistry, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I've read some of those. I don’t know how they think Mycroft can get any work done—much less walk—with all that shagging. But Rupert and I have never had any bloody scenes together before this! How can they see any chemistry” Mark is laughing now and his face is pink.

“Don’t know--sixth sense? You do look lovely together . . . I can see the appeal . . .”

“Stop it.” Mark is flushed crimson to the tips of his ears now.

“Listen Mark—there’s really nothing to be uncomfortable about. What I’ve learned from reading all the Dr Who and Sherlock stuff out there is that we all have a whole universe of stories running inside our heads all the time. Things that we may not really want to admit to anyone or only want to reveal anonymously online. But it’s good to let those fantasies out for some play time--enjoy sharing them, if you can.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Are you writing fanfiction?”

Sue blushes. “Well, not exactly. I’m making videos. Loo is writing, and you know Una’s a painter, so . . . we’re just dabb ling. We’re going to do a little Christmas exchange of our work, if you’re interested?”

Mark starts laughing. “I might be . . . what are you making—and how slashy is it?”

“Well, Loo prompted me with ‘Rupert and Andrew behind the scenes’ so I’m trying to get as much footage of them in the makeup chair and in their underwear doing costume fittings as possible.”

Mark puts on a shocked face. “That’s really unethical, isn’t it?”

Sue smiles. “I’m not putting it on YouTube—it’s just a friendly exchange. _Private_. And mine will be discreet--solidly pre-watershed compared to the stuff Una has in mind. She ships John and Sherlock like mad, and is doing a set of watercolors that are . . . well, I guess you’d say NSFW.”

“And Loo—I assume she’s writing something scandalous?”

Sue looks down, examining her fingernails. “Uh, probably.”

“Tell me.”

“Moriarty/Mycroft/Irene. Uh . . . there’s some sort of dungeon and leathers—and the umbrella . . .”

“Oh my.”

Paul comes back into the room, and Mark stands up to leave, quickly whispering, “Count me in. “I’ll write a drabble for each of you. . . . Something scary and filthy?”

“Perfect.”

Mark walks out of the screening room and down the hall, where he runs into Rupert, picking up a revised script from Steven’s assistant. He's chatting with the assistant, gesturing with those beautiful, masculine hands and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, forearms bare and tanned and . . . Mark tries not to look at him, and mumbles a hello, picking up his own satchel and laptop and making his way to the door on wobbly legs. Rupert stops him with a friendly squeeze of his shoulder.

“Mark! I just had a brilliant idea--and I have to talk to you about it.”

“Oh?” Mark looks over at Lucy, the twenty-something assistant. She’s beaming in a way that makes Mark very uncomfortable.

“Yeah---Lucy’s been showing me all these great little stories--what do you call them? Slap?”

“Slash, Mr. Graves. It's a type of fanfiction,” says Lucy, winking at Mark.

“Yeah, right. So apparently, lots of these Sherlock fans think Mycroft and Lestrade are a couple--some people even think they’re secretly married! Can you believe it?”

“Oh dear—really? That’s . . . uh . . . that's fascinating.”

“So I thought maybe we could take a couple of these stories and turn them into little five-minute episodes--like as a funny gift for Steven and Martin and Ben. You know, they get so much teasing about the John and Sher lock romance thing. It’d be great fun for the wrap party, don’t you think?” He’s showing all those teeth and his brown eyes are dancing. He's gone back to scrolling through Lucy's computer, looking at fics. "Ha-Mystrade! That's funny. . . . I don't really understand all these mentions of food . . .  cake, strawberries, ice cream . . . you're eating an eclair in this one . . . Oh. Ohh, right."

Mark’s mouth is dry. He’s sure his pulse is racing at double its normal speed. He gives Lucy a desperate “help me” look, and she grins and then takes pity on him. As she wipes a slight bit of drool from the corner of her mouth, she says, “Why don’t you two discuss this later? I think you’re scheduled for an interview, Mr. Gatiss? You probably need to rush off if you’re going to be on time?”

Mark can only choke out a grateful, “Yes . . . thank you, Lucy . . . yes . . . rushi ng off now. We’ll talk in a few days, Rupert. . . . Uh . . . bye . . .”

Rupert smiles and nods. Completely oblivious. As usual. He gives Mark’s arm a final squeeze, to which Mark responds with a faint, high-pitched noise that sounds a lot like, “Squeeee.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> _For those who aren't obsessed with him: There's an interview with Rupert Graves in which he talks about using the "magic if" to get into character, particular for his role in Maurice. Here it just refers to my wish for fanfic to magically come true.  
>  Also, Una Stubbs really is a painter, and Louise Brealey a writer. I hope they make stuff for the Sherlock fandom under crazy pseuds._


End file.
